Chapter 43
Day Twenty-Two – Night
Flames expanded. Flickering lights surrounded Buron and Breg as they moved with a swarm of prisoners. They hadn’t exchanged a single word since Zaber had given them his last order. The fear of being alone after this night, just the two of them, lingered in their spines. Every now and then they guided the revolting crowd. They accompanied them to find tools and pressed them into position. The enthusiasm of these captives, filled with hope, was the only thing that kept the scrawny and giant veterans going. The tools that were killing the prisoners were reversed now.
Four soldiers took position around a canopy with sealed barrels underneath it. Crossbow bolts buzzed around as other groups of prisoners were storming the palisades. The unreasonably tall man and his bald companion struggled to shake off the freed. Something about Breg made folk stick to him in battle. “Follow the beast,” and “Nobody will mess with something like that” were among the nicest things that Buron had heard.
“Attack!” yelled Breg and pointed at the guards near the canopy. “Buron, throw,” he added when the rioters didn’t move.
The scrawny veteran flipped the looted voulge around, threw his arm back and flung it toward their enemies to lead the way. The crowd charged after it, and Breg let himself fall back. This wasn’t his and Buron’s first battle, unlike many of these unfortunate souls. But there was no time to waste – the big ones were waiting for them.
“Take their weapons and helmets after you kill them!” screamed Buron, gaining little attention from the prisoners.
“There’s more coming,” said Breg, grabbing his companion’s shoulder and directing him at two more soldiers. They were running to their well-lined up comrades’ aid, about to take the prisoner’s flank.
“We don’t have time for–” Buron halted and unsheathed his falchion. “One good deed?”
“Fuck no,” grunted the unreasonably tall man. A bolt hit the back of his barbute helmet. He turned around, but there was no way to find the source. Too many men were fighting, and too much smoke was building from the spreading fires. “Once.” Breg nodded and raised the excellent blade that Roda gave him.
The soldiers noticed the colossus coming for them. And how couldn’t they? For a man of his size, he was also fast. They both took position towards him, sticking their polearms in front of them. Buron moved behind Breg, whose armor was like a shield for the scrawny veteran. When the unreasonably tall man blocked the first voulge, close to his body, Breg stepped deeper inside their enemies’ range. The second attack, at the same time, only hit him on the shoulder with the wooden pole. A retracting cut was not able to go through the plated maille. The bald former mercenary wasn’t that fast, but Buron knew how an opening looked like when he saw one. Leaping around Breg so that he would only face one of the guards, Buron hacked and slashed forward with his falchion. What he lacked in precision, the bald man made up in numbers.
One guard got hit so hard against his maille and helmet that his muscles gave in. The other one was felled in one strike. Breg controlled his foe’s weapon by keeping his blade bound to it, after which he let go of one hand. He held the voulge of the soldier down and thrust the longsword into his face. Meanwhile, Buron was still crushing the other one’s bones. Until he happened to hit him under the helmet and end his struggle.
“You done?” asked Breg, pulling the longsword out of the soldier’s skull. He lifted the voulge from the corpse’s hands.
“You know me,” replied Buron, wiping the sweat off his neck. “It takes me longer than you.” The bald man grinned, squinted, and picked up the other polearm.
The prisoners weren’t as effective, weakened and sick, but their mass was on their side. The unreasonably tall man bumped the hilt of his weapon against his bald companion’s shoulder. Smiling, he took both polearms into his giant palm. He walked close enough to the rioting crowd to hand them to the nearest captive. The man looked scared and thrilled at the same time.
“Take their weapons and helmets before you move on!” he yelled, and turned his back on them again. “Never stop.”
Breg and Buron made their way through the camp alone afterwards. They heard the guards around them. Some gave, and some followed orders, but most were headless chickens by that point. The former mercenaries knew that this was crucial to their success. Most battles were won by breaking an enemy, not overwhelming them. “Not that thing!” and “We can’t stop that!” were among the ones that hurt the most. Others might have reveled in it, but Buron knew how much Breg hated to be viewed like that. Less than human. A tool. Without anything to fight, the tall veteran had nothing to distract himself with. His bald companion expected his mind to be shut off by now. All while the flames consumed the place, and Thyra’s song was not even a distant noise anymore.
What led them through the camp were the occasional screams for an officer – one that did not belong to these soldiers. But nobody had taken over, and it was Franque’s task to find the other enchanter.
“Ego tremor!” boomed a far reaching bass, demanding the duo’s attention. Planks and stones rattled, and the ground moved. Men closer to the epicenter lost balance, no matter if guard or prisoner.
The unreasonably tall man and his bald companion turned around and found a familiar sight. A man in full armor. Romund talked to none of the soldiers, gave no orders, and made an attempt to move. He stood in front of the burning main gate, the motte and bailey close by.
“I have my orders,” sounded Romund from afar, his hounskull helmet reflecting the flames around him. “Nobody will leave the camp.”
“Self-indulgent arseholes,” said Buron as he trotted behind Breg. He kept his distance from his colossal companion, circling left and right to keep an eye on the knight. “Worst kind of nob.”
The soldiers that were desperately trying to contain the fire fled as they witnessed the nobleman draw his bastard sword. “I hoped it’d be you,” said Romund. With the raging fire as the only light source, it was hard to see if the arcanium inside the scripture was replenished or not. “You or that frog-mouthed man.” He grabbed the blade and took a stance, waiting for the veterans to come closer. “A knight is worth one hundred, they say. But in your case, it might only be ten.”
“You’re not the first officer I’m facing,” grizzled Breg, a grim visage flashing through the slits of his helmet.
“You’re used to being worth more as ransom,” said Buron, keeping himself out of Romund’s view behind Breg. “You’ll die a boring death today.”
Romund lowered his sword into a guard and shifted his feet into range. The scrawny man kept himself out of their enemy’s reach, but held his falchion ready. He knew that, no matter how gifted Breg was, he was only a man. A beautiful man of blood and bones, made of muscle. Buron had always been in the back of a battle, not trained as a man-at-arms like his friends. But the only way to kill the knight was by distracting him, surprising him, and silencing him. Buron was as prepared as ever, seeing the love of his life shift his feet and rest his longsword on his shoulder – ready to strike.
“Where did you get that?” asked Romund’s menacingly low voice, as the men shifted closer toward each other on their soles. “You’re not tricking me, like your worthless friend.”
Breg snapped forward with a swift and powerful swing that would easily behead any mere man. An ardent chant, “Dā mihi celeritātem”, interrupted the attack. The knight outpaced the taller man and thrust between the incoming attack. More than a mere block, he overtook the central line of the fight and struck down Breg’s arms. Before Romund could push the bastard sword between the gaps of the plated maille, Buron’s falchion smashed against his visor. Breg pushed back at the moment that the lieutenant’s head snapped to the side.
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“D–, da–” stuttered Romund, tumbling backwards. “Dā mihi vīrēs!” The inscriptions on his lower arms burned red with the sloppy verse. The swords and hands of the armored men were still entangled. Thus, the knight threw the tall commoner to the side.
“Arms mended!” reported Buron. He swept back in and smashed his falchion against Romund’s mailled neck.
The lieutenant stumbled one more step before finding his footing again. He turned his head towards Buron, unfazed. “Right, you’re also here,” he said, with a grinding undertone. “Ego–”
Rolling across the ground, Breg caught himself in a kneeling position. He swung his sword at the knight’s legs without aim. Not much of a hit, it was enough for the unreasonably tall man to land between Romund’s greaves. As the giant got back on his foot, he levered his enemy off the ground.
“Moveō terram,” chanted the knight, also not thinking about his next action anymore. The earth beneath them moved, like the hiccup this spell was, and loosened the soil for a brief moment. Only long enough for Breg to slip while standing up, faltering out of reach. With Buron moving back and forth whenever there was an opening. His feet sunk into the ground just an inch, twisting his leg.
“Da–” The bass was interrupted once again. The scrawny veteran fell forward, and hit the knight’s elbow, to no effect. “Dā mihi vīrēs,” repeated Romund. No part of his armor glowed, as he kicked Buron in the chest, flinging him over the ground.
Using this opening, Breg got upright again and thrust his sword into the gap of Romund’s armor – right at the armpit. A deep and throaty “Argh!” rang from the knight, as he contorted backwards. It was too dark to see blood, and Breg was watching after Buron. He still moved.
The unreasonably tall man did as he was taught – make an advantage count. With imperfect footwork, he pursued the nobleman. One hand at the hilt, the other at the blade, half-swording the enemy into a bind. The thin layer between Romund’s helmet and his gorget was only maille to pierce through.
“Ego immobilis,” wheezed the lieutenant. With a red burn from his legs, Romund became immovable to even the strongest man. He wrapped his own hands around Breg’s forearms, keeping away the giant’s sword, but the man close. “Dā mihi vīrēs!” sung the bass, with regained composure. He let himself fall back and dragged Breg with him. One foot on the former mercenary’s hip, and he got catapulted over his foe in full motion.
Buron pushed himself up. He felt every bone in his body, needing to use his falchion as a crutch to get on his feet. His knee gave in when he saw the tallest, biggest man in the world – his everything – fly through the air like he was a very heavy pebble.
“No, Breg!” he yelled, grabbing the air as if he could catch Breg. Even thinking about running made his knee hurt, which gave Romund more than enough time to stand up. The knight’s posture had lost grandeur. He looked hurt. “Fuck off, you pr–”
“Understood,” nodded Romund and turned towards Buron. “You’re next.” Fully armored, he wasn’t in a rush to reach the scrawny veteran. A weak hit with the falchion didn’t stop him either. “Dā mihi vīrēs,” sung the bass again, like a bark. He held his bastard sword in one hand, clashing the back of his free gauntlet against another futile attack coming from Buron. The falchion flung to the side, dented. The scrawny man’s hand trembled from the hit.
“Is the frog-mouth here too?” Before he got to Buron, he turned around once more, holding his armpit. “I’ll slaughter each of you traitors.” He knelt down and picked up the sword that Roda gave Breg. Holding the blade against the flames, he read the engraved spells. The knight’s breath showed itself.
Crashed onto the ground, Breg was conscious but couldn’t move. Good armor prevented the worst, but it added weight to the fall. All air was pushed out of him, but he heard every word. He also felt a kick against his legs that made him twitch.
“Good,” said Romund, as his head towered over Breg’s sight, looking down on him. “Shame if you missed this.” The knight’s rhythm returned, as he stomped on the giant’s chest. “Ego tremor!”
The earth shook furiously and Breg screamed at the top of his lungs, but no sound left his open maw. An unthinkable pain entered his body and left it through his back, into the ground. Breaths felt like an eternity and it was as if Breg sensed everything at once. His eyes were torn open, but he couldn’t see anything until the spell stopped and his body went numb.
Jumping at Romund from behind, a scrawny body wrapped itself around the knight. Buron grabbed his helmet and swordarm. There was no technique, no control. Only raw emotion drove the balding man. He could not allow Breg to die, and he screamed this feeling out with unintelligible pants and groans.
“I’ve had it with you.” Romund struck his elbows backwards. He jumped up and let himself fall, squashing Buron like the bug he was. The knight’s armpit felt wet, but his innards were spared. While still in the air, he ripped open his visor, to sing another verse: “Ego tremōribus!”
Sure of his victory, everything was put into this spell. Everything his voice touched was trembling; shaking. The ground split open, and the burning gate collapsed, as did the closest barracks and huts. Romund’s voice spanned hundreds of feet. Prisoners and guards alike were disrupted by it. The lieutenant laid down in bitter exhaustion, on top of his enemy. But when he reopened his eyes, he wasn’t met with the starlit sky, smog or smoke. What he saw was a monstrosity, barely illuminated by the flames. Without his helmet, a bearded colossus towered over him, dripping with blood. Breg was hunched over and his body still trembled.
“Ego fulgara,” uttered the knight in an unfit bass for that kind of spell, only producing a meager spark. It died off too soon, as he thrust it against Breg’s dented plates to electrocute him. Instead, a feeble sound of metal on metal rang. Nothing happened, as he listened to the battle around them and stared at Breg.
“Dō–Fā–Tī–” Genhard overloaded the area with magic. He wasn’t sure he could have done it if Romund was at full strength. But forcing his Will onto him was easy the way he was right now. “Ego trahō ferrum,” sang the patrician when he noticed a lack of resistance from the knight. Dragging the longsword out of Romund’s hand and into his own. Catching it sent a surge of pain through the enchanter. Thyra held him up, while Torm led him from behind.
“We’re here!” yelled Torm at his allies, but Breg didn’t react.
“Get up,” grizzled the unreasonably tall man quietly. “Get up from him!” he repeated, and grabbed the knight by the helmet. One pull later, Romund found himself standing up and the hounskull ripped from his head.
Romund was covered in sweat, his beard and hair ruffled. Unable to turn his head, he glimpsed at Genhard. “Miserable–” he uttered, promptly shut up by a punch that broke his nose and sent him back onto the ground, away from Buron. The knight knew that raising his voice was futile.
“Get. Up.” The colossal man knelt over the motionless body of his enemy. Blood dripped on the knight’s face.
“Wait!” Torm ran past Genhard with raised arms. “Breg, wait.” The giant threw another punch and readied another one. He only stopped when his friend’s apprentice laid hands on him, but his gaze was still fixated on his foe. The witch and the enchanter came to a halt close by and saw that Romund’s eyes were closed. He was still breathing. “Don’t kill him,” said Torm.
“Huh?” Thyra blinked. She let Genhard stand on his own, and put her hands on Breg’s chest, feeling the dented armor. The unreasonably tall man didn’t flinch. “Are you hurt?”
“You there.” Torm turned around and waved Genhard over. “I want you to kill him,” he said with no shift in tone. The open cut above his eye was still bleeding, with a crust building on his eyebrow from the surrounding heat. When Genhard took a step backwards, the young man grabbed the patrician’s arm that held the longsword. “Do it,” he ordered, staring. “If you want to survive this.”
When Breg heard Torm’s order, his tone, he shook his head. Wiping his face, straightening his beard, the tall giant walked away and sank to his knees next to Buron. Thoroughly, he checked his bald companion’s chest and stroked his face. “Still breathing,” he whispered, and took off his mailled gloves. “I need–” He looked at Torm. “I need to get him out.”
“Understood,” nodded the young man.
“Go,” muttered Breg. “Go save my friend.”
“I’ll sing for both your health,” said Thyra and put a hand on Breg’s back. She looked at Buron’s oddly peaceful face. “I–” Her eyes wandered over to Genhard, who’s grip on the sword lacked resolve. He gulped, and Thyra knew how he felt. “I should leave with you. My work is done, and I’m not made for this.”
One of the conic huts and barracks that were on the other side of the motte and bailey suddenly crashed. It sunk into the ground and broke apart. Beyond the crackling and sizzles, there was a song that didn’t stem from rioting.
“F–” Torm’s entire body jerked around, as he knew that building. He ran. He just ran. “Follow!” was his last order.
Thyra sighed, but did as she was told. A risen Breg shouldered his beloved. He looked down on the patrician who struggled to leave his old life behind. But there was no going back.
He exhaled, twisted the hilt of the longsword, and held it up to Romund’s throat. “I want to go home.”